


before we turn to stone

by amillionsmiles



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Gen, Slow Burn, chloe is a princess, shameless akagami no shirayukihime au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marinette has been the master of assessing things with a cool eye all her life.  Spotted rash? Apply fragrant morel salve every twelve hours. Nightmares? Ghost winterberries taken with tea just before bed. Stuffed sinuses? A pinch of imianna should do it.</p><p>And when the royal court comes knocking on your door because of your hair, you hand over your hair.</p><p>But not the rest of your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	before we turn to stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taylortot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylortot/gifts).



> Zen&Shirayuki are my precious angels and so are Adrien&Marinette so what better combination than Adrien and Marinette as Zen and Shirayuki (if you haven't read the [manga](http://www.mangahere.co/manga/akagami_no_shirayukihime/%0A) or watched the anime you're missing out)

For the record, Marinette would like to establish that she did, in fact, have plans.

Sure, they might not have been grand. The village—her village—was too small to even have a name and was designated on maps simply by its location: Tanbarun, foothills. Travelers typically stopped by for a quick rest before they headed toward the trading posts scattered through the mountain routes, and hardly a face could pass through without everyone catching some glimpse of it. In the midst of this, next to a neatly kept garden bursting with all manners of herbs and alpine flowers, sat Marinette’s apothecary.

The key emphasis being _Marinette’s._ Because _she_ was in charge: writing prescriptions, mixing poultices, monitoring symptoms. It was hard, but it was rewarding, made all the more sweet by the knowledge that Marinette had built up this business; she alone held the key to her success. To her future.

And then Princess Chloe had to ruin it.

 

*.*.*.*.*

 

“Handmaid?” Marinette repeats, trying to keep the disbelief from her voice.

“Yes.” The orange-haired girl in front of her adjusts her spectacles, sea-green eyes appraising Marinette with a determined gleam. “Princess Chloe is interested in assembling only the finest court, and with your hair—”

“My…hair?” Marinette raises a hand to her head, the inky black strands sliding through her fingers. _Midnight blue_ is what her grandmother always called it; Marinette remembers trips to the market, how the other kids would tug at her pigtails and say that she had the kind of hair that hung the stars in the sky. She’d started wearing a cloak as she grew older just to avoid the unwanted attention while running errands, but theirs was a small village.

Not small enough, apparently, to escape the notice of one princess of Tanbarun.

“This must be a mistake,” Marinette tries again, palm flat against the doorframe. “The princess doesn’t want me—I don’t have any training—”

“ _Obviously_ you’d be provided with some upon your arrival to the castle,” the orange-haired girl states matter-of-factly.

“You don’t understand,” Marinette says, this time more firmly. “I don’t _want_ to go.”

The messenger pauses but quickly recovers. “Nonsense. Anyone would be honored to work for Princess Chloe.” She marks something down on the parchment in her hands. “I will return tomorrow morning at the eighth bell. Be ready with your belongings by then.”

Gaping, Marinette watches the girl leave before slamming the door shut and whirling around to inspect the empty apothecary, mind already racing.

“Well. That settles it then, doesn’t it?”

 

*.*.*.*.*

 

Which is what brings her, hours later, to the dull buzz of the forest, the fading sunlight casting dappled streaks upon the ground. Marinette sidesteps a gnarled root, drawing her bundle of provisions closer.

She’s been the master of assessing things with a cool eye for a while. Spotted rash? Apply fragrant morel salve every twelve hours over the course of three days. Nightmares? Ghost winterberries taken with tea just before bed. Stuffed sinuses? A pinch of imianna should do it.

And when the royal court comes knocking on your door because of your hair, you hand over your hair.

But not the rest of your life.

Marinette has enough to last her a three-day journey, if it comes to that. She just knows that she has to get far enough from her shop so that come morning, no one will find her. The message she left behind should do the trick: twelve inches of her hair shorn off, tied with a neat red-and-black polka-dotted ribbon. _You can have this, Princess Chloe._

_Just not me._

Hopefully the princess will think it’s beneath her to keep chasing after a hostile villager. If not, Marinette can always hitch a ride with one of the trade caravans going toward one of the larger towns. It’ll be hard, parting from her shop, but she’s nothing if not resourceful, and maybe a new start is what she needs. Blank page after blank page, ready to be inked in with a firm hand.

All things considered, Marinette has a pretty optimistic outlook by the time she stumbles across the safehouse.

From the outside, the stone appears grimy, splattered at its base by mud from years of heavy rains. Inside, however, the courtyard has been tidied up, though a faint layer of pollen on the tiles leads Marinette to believe that no one’s visited recently.

Marinette tries the doors. Locked. Sighing, she makes herself as comfortable as she can against one of the columns under the awning, flipping her hood up to hide her hair as she unwraps an eagerly awaited dinner.

The jam melts on her tongue easily; with a pang, Marinette thinks of home, the jars still stocked in her pantry. _It’s only temporary,_ her conscience eases. _One step at a time. All you have to do is make it through tomorrow morning._

Caught up in her thoughts, Marinette doesn’t notice the scuffling sound of boots against stone until it’s too late—until the intruder is vaulting over the courtyard wall.

Their eyes meet. A jolt runs through Marinette, because his eyes are the kind of green she’s only dreamed of, spun from some other kingdom’s summer garden, a meadow in a glance. Twin jewels that widen, fractionally, as he catches sight of her—

—and crashes to the ground.

“Adrien!” More footsteps. Two more figures leap over the courtyard wall, lithe and lean, landing in a crouch, their leather boots soft beneath them.

“Are you hurt?” This, from the red-haired woman. She wears a double-breasted jacket, the cuffs edged in scarlet; it isn’t a uniform Marinette recognizes.

“I’m fine.” The boy—Adrien—gets to his feet, though by the way he cradles his left arm Marinette can tell that the fall has bothered him more than he lets on. “It seems we have a guest, though, Tikki, Plagg.”

At that, his companions turn to regard her. The woman has wide blue eyes, framed by long lashes, but underneath the softness of her features sits a knowing look, some ageless wisdom. Her partner stands a head taller than her—taller than Adrien, too, for that matter. His jet black hair stands up in spikes and his piercing green eyes have a crafty slant; despite his lazy stance, his hand rests at the sword on his hip with a familiarity Marinette doesn’t want to test.

“So,” says Adrien, who has drawn out his sword, though it still remains covered by its scabbard, “who might you be?”

And before Marinette can respond, he flicks off her hood.

 _“Oh,_ ” Tikki utters softly. Adrien’s eyes widen, though the rest of his face remains composed.

“Interesting,” remarks Plagg.

“I don’t want any trouble,” says Marinette, finding her voice. Her heartbeat picks up as she starts to catalogue escape routes, wondering if there’s a way for her to evade three people.

Adrien cocks his head. Something in the action reminds her of Nyla, the village cat that made a living off of dead birds and the milk and water people would set out on their doorsteps out of kindness. “Are you…running from something?”

“That’s none of your concern." The fewer people who know, the less likely one of Princess Chloe’s minions will track her down. She nods to Adrien’s arm, partly to divert attention away from herself, partly out of genuine concern. “I can take care of that, if you need.”

“Oh, this?” Adrien waves his arm, doing his best to disguise its stiffness. “It’s nothing.  Besides,” his eyes dart toward Plagg, “how do I know this isn’t some setup to slip me a little poison?”

Marinette gapes.

“You said you didn’t want any trouble, and neither do we,” Adrien continues. “If you’d like to continue your journey, there’s a shortcut across the brook a little ways from here.” He smiles in what Marinette knows is probably supposed to be a conciliatory gesture; on any other day, it might have worked.

But she’s tired and cranky and it’s getting dark. A closer inspection of Adrien, Tikki, and Plagg’s clothes reveals that the black fabric is too fine for the likes of her, which means they must be nobles of some sort. And Marinette has had enough of pampered princesses and presumptuous lords barging in and telling her what to do, well meaning or not.

Incensed, she grabs his sword. Adrien relinquishes control of it easily, too stunned to react. Bringing the flat end of the scabbard down hard against her skin, Marinette immediately digs through her bag for an ointment to slather over the reddened patch, tearing a strip of cloth to wind around her arm as a bandage. She holds the finished product up to the trio, eyes flashing.

“I’m a healer,” she huffs, “and I don’t make it a habit to poison myself, much less anyone else.”

Adrien regards her in stunned silence. Beside him, Tikki’s mouth twitches with a small grin, her eyes sparking with admiration.

Plagg cackles. “Well, she really showed you.”

“So she did.” Adrien turns to her and brings his injured arm across his chest, bowing slightly. “My apologies. I’d be honored to have you fix me up. Would you like to come inside…?” he trails off, indicating the doors behind her, and Marinette realizes that his other hand clutches a brass key.

“Marinette,” she says grudgingly. “It’s Marinette.”

 

*.*.*.*.*

 

Marinette wakes up on the couch the next morning with a crick in her neck. Tikki and Plagg had tried to offer her the bedroom, but it was their safehouse and she hadn’t felt right about the whole thing.

She supposes that she should be more suspicious, but theirs is an easy group to fall into. Adrien, Tikki, and Plagg have a comfortable manner about them, the sort that arises from years of close companionship, and Marinette had been lured in by the warmth of their circle, the idea that she, too, could be taken into their confidence.

Not for long, though. They’ll part ways soon; she’ll head back home and they’ll go off on whatever jaunt through the countryside the nobility engage in these days.

Marinette nudges aside her knapsack with a foot and eases open the door quietly, inhaling the cool morning air.

She goes to check out the brook that Adrien mentioned the other night. It isn’t far, and the ground is wet with dew and a sleepy stillness. Out here, Marinette can’t tell what time it is, but by the position of the sun she guesses that it’s at least two hours past the eighth bell.

_I will return tomorrow morning at the eighth bell._

She hasn’t been captured, yet; that has to mean something, doesn’t it?

Behind her, a twig snaps. Marinette whirls around.

“Adrien!” she presses a hand to her chest. “You scared me.”

“Leaving so soon?” he asks lightly, but the searching look in his eyes betrays a smidgen of disappointment.

“Oh, no,” Marinette reassures. She looks at the glade around her. “I just wanted to take a walk.”

“Oh.” Adrien’s shoulders relax and he rests a hand on his hip, lifting his face toward the sky. “It’s nice out here, isn’t it? Different from being in town. Quieter, more comfortable.”

A gentle breeze stirs his hair, lifting a few of the golden strands. The dark collar of his jacket stands out against the honeyed column of his throat, and in profile he manages to look both boyish and regal.

“You’re pretty open in the mornings, aren’t you?” teases Marinette, resting her head against a tree.

Adrien turns to her, a faint blush staining his cheeks.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me about yourself, now? And what you’re hiding from?” he counters.

He’d pressed her about it several times last night, but Marinette had deflected his questions, initially out of guardedness but later because she simply didn’t believe Adrien would be that interested. " _Someone wanted me to be her handmaid because she liked my hair"_ doesn’t quite have a ring to it, after all.

She moves to shake her head but is stopped by a sharp tug at her scalp.

“Ow!”

“Are you all right?” Adrien is by her side in an instant.

“I’m fine, I just…” she winces. “Can you see what it is?”

Adrien bends closer. “Your hair’s stuck in the tree—there’s this longer bundle. Do you want…” he reaches up, hesitating.

Marinette feels along the back of her head, trying to untangle the offending strands. “I must have missed a spot when I cut it before I left. Do you have a knife?”

Adrien produces one from his belt, grinning. “I’m always prepared.”

“Oh, good. Can you cut this for me?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you—”

“On one condition.” Adrien rests a thumb against his chin, the knife held in his other hand, which crosses his stomach. There’s a mischievous gleam in his eye, and Marinette is once again taken aback by all the faces of this boy, how his expressions range from prideful to gentle to charming to cunning. “You tell me what cutting off your hair has to do with leaving home.”

Marinette sighs. “Deal.”

 

*.*.*.*.*

 

By the time they return to the safehouse, Adrien has managed to extract the story of Marinette’s flight from Chloe (though she refrained from using the princess’s name). Adrien is a good listener, and Marinette’s chest flares with a small burst of pride when he laughs at hearing she left behind a bundle of her hair, neatly tied ( _“That’s perfect!”_ ).

“So I’m hoping that by the time I return home, she’ll have forgotten all about me or at least decided I’m not worth the trouble,” says Marinette, eyes on the trail in front of her as she hops on top of a stone.

Adrien sticks out an arm in front of her, hand going to the hilt of his sword.

Marinette halts. “What—”

“Who are you?” Adrien asks the boy who has appeared in front of them bearing a basket.

“Messenger from Tanbarun, sir!” His head tilts, eyes fixating behind Adrien, on Marinette. “It’s a present—”

“That’s my ribbon.” Marinette moves to Adrien’s side, stomach sinking with dread.

Adrien studies her carefully, holding the basket out to her. “Marinette?”

“Thank you.” Marinette bows hurriedly to the boy, taking the basket from Adrien’s hand and snatching him by the sleeve. “Come on, I…I need to take a look at this inside.”

 

*.*.*.*.*

 

“Hmph,” sniffs Plagg. “Apples and bread, but no cheese.”

Adrien is busy reading over the note attached to the basket for the fifth time. _“Tanbarun?”_ he repeats. “You crossed the _border_ to get away from this person?”

“Apparently I _didn’t_ get away,” Marinette says glumly. “This whole time, someone must have been tracking me.” She presses a hand to her eyes. “Ugh, I’m so _stupid._ ”

“Marinette, don’t say that,” pipes up Tikki, frowning.

Marinette picks up one of the apples, half-listening. She turns it over in her hand, running her fingers along the ruby red skin. “I wonder…was there even a point? If I go back, at least I can walk into the castle on my own two feet, not trussed up and delivered with a neat little bow like these apples.”

“Marinette.” Adrien’s tone is sharp, his fingers warm around her wrist. “You don’t have to go back.”

And then he takes a bite.

Of the apple.

From her hand.

“ _Adrien,_ that’s rude!” exclaims Tikki at the same time Plagg chortles, “Come on, kid, what kind of move are you trying to make?”

Adrien blushes furiously, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. “I wasn’t trying to make any kind of move!” he splutters. “Marinette—she just—”

“I get it, Adrien,” Marinette says softly, and she suddenly doesn’t understand how she could have gone eighteen years without knowing any of these people, with all of their humor and heart. “You were trying to take my mind off of things.”

“Yes, I—” Adrien sways dangerously, stumbling forward. Realization flashes across his face. “Marinette,” he says hoarsely, “don't eat…the rest of that apple. Tikki, Plagg…sorry.”

He faints.

“Adrien!” Tikki grabs his shoulder, rolling him over to lie flat on his back. Marinette jumps up from the couch, panicked, eyes darting around the room for her medicine bag, but her search is interrupted by the creak of the door.

The orange-haired girl from before stands in the opening, blinking at them all with enormous eyes.

 _“What,_ ” hisses Marinette, the bitten apple clenched in her fist, “have you _done._ ”

“Oh. Oh, dear,” says the girl as she takes in the scene—Plagg listening for a heartbeat, Tikki lifting Adrien’s eyelids. “You’d better come with me.”

 

*.*.*.*.*

 

 Princess Chloe is everything Marinette imagined, multiplied by ten.

 _“So,”_ she says, dropping her hand from the richly brocaded curtains and turning away from the massive glass windows, “you’ve finally decided to join me.” Her gown drips with splendor; three strings of pearls decorate the neckline and a hundred tiny diamonds wink against the yellow and white satin of the skirt. Princess Chloe arranges said skirt around her as she sits in one of the plush chairs, raising her chin to look at Marinette expectantly.

“You poisoned my friend,” accuses Marinette, before she remembers some of her manners and drops to a curtsy, adding, “Princess.”

Princess Chloe narrows her eyes. “Yes, it seems that the apple meant for you was ingested by someone else.”

“Wh—”

“You know, you’ve caused me an _awful_ lot of trouble,” confides Chloe, picking up a peacock feather and running it along the palm of her hand. “Running away is one thing, but doing it so _obviously…_ people are starting to talk behind my back, and I _so_ hate that. Which is why I want you,” she pauses, crushing the peacock feather in her fist and looking up at Marinette through half-lidded eyes, “to apologize publicly and declare that you’d be _honored_ to serve as my handmaid.”

“I…you can’t be serious!”

“I’m deadly serious,” Chloe promises, eyes glittering. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t have to be right this instant. We’ll have to make arrangements, of course. So take all the time you need.” She pauses, inspecting her perfectly lacquered fingernails before eyeing Marinette slyly, petal pink lips curving into a smirk. “ _If_ your friend can afford it.”

Marinette thinks of Adrien. Adrien, standing in the glade, staring up at the sky, at peace. Adrien, turning red at Plagg’s jokes. Adrien and his soft smile, the kind of smile that could open any door if it wanted.

She wants to see that smile again.

“Fine,” Marinette grits out. “ _Fine,_ your Highness, I’ll be your handmaid, but only if you swear— _swear_ —you’ll administer the antidote—”

“Objection!” the door to the room flies open, slamming against the wall, and Adrien stands in the opening, alive. Healthy, even.

 _“Adrien?”_ cries Marinette, only to realize that she isn’t the only one to speak; beside her, the princess has gone white, rising to her feet.

“Chloe.” Adrien steps further into the room, bowing deeply.

“ _This_ is your friend?” Chloe asks at the same time Marinette splutters, “How—what—you _know each other?_ ”

“Of course we do,” hisses Chloe. “Do you have any idea who you’re speaking to? That’s—”

“Adrien Agreste,” says Adrien, bandaged arm outstretched as he bows to Marinette this time, a rueful smile on his face. “Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Clarines.”

 

*.*.*.*.*

 

Marinette is done. So done. With royals.

“You’re a _prince?”_ she gapes, disbelieving.

“The one and only!” pipes up Plagg; he and Tikki have taken up posts by the door, preventing anyone else from entering.

But Adrien ignores Marinette, too busy appealing to Chloe.

“Chloe,” he says, and he’s taken on yet another persona—traveling dignitary, cool and collected, “as a fellow member of royalty and as your friend, I’m asking you: please don’t do this.”

“As a _friend?_ ” says Chloe, voice rising. “Adrien, we haven’t seen each other in six years.”

“I know,” says Adrien, sounding genuinely regretful. “And I’m sorry. You know how my father is.”

Chloe’s expression softens marginally. “What is she, to you?” she asks, indicating Marinette with a jerk of her chin; Marinette tries not to bristle too much.

Adrien looks over at her, green eyes reassuring. “She’s a friend.” He turns back to Chloe. “But more than that, she’s her own person, Chloe. You can’t and you shouldn’t force her into anything. Try to understand that.”

The seconds creep by. Marinette thinks of moss growing, slowly eating away at stone, a droplet of sweat trickling down her back.

Eventually, Chloe speaks. “Promise you’ll be at my birthday ball.”

Adrien blinks. “Chloe—”

“It’s in three months; that should give you plenty of time to convince your father. Promise me you’ll be there and that you’ll dance with me and…” Her eyes dart toward Marinette. “I’ll let her go.”

“I promise.” Adrien steps forward, bending down on one knee to take Chloe’s hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “I, Adrien Agreste, will dance with you, Chloe Bourgeois, three months from now, if you promise to let Marinette go.”

“Marinette,” says Chloe, as if remembering that Marinette is still in the room. “So that’s your name.”

But Marinette is too busy studying Adrien. She’d thought he seemed healthy before, but his cheeks are still flushed while the rest of him seems washed out, and his hands are shaking, slightly.

The poison is still taking its toll.

“Marinette?” says Adrien, getting back on his feet and holding a hand out to her. “Do you have anything you want to say to Chloe?”

“Th-thank you, Your Highness,” Marinette manages, curtsying. “Your—erm, your graciousness is truly astounding. And I have one final request.”

“A request?” frowns Chloe, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes.” Marinette glances at Adrien. “Please get Adrien the antidote immediately.”

“Oh.” Chloe blinks, straightening, and brushes past them to the door, where Tikki and Plagg step aside. “I’ll summon a healer right away; stay here.” Just before she steps into the hallway, she stops, looking back over her shoulder, a trace of vulnerability crossing her face.

“Three months, Adrien. I won’t forget.”

“Neither will I,” says Adrien, as the princess of Tanbarun leaves to find him a cure.

 

*.*.*.*.*

 

Later, after Adrien has downed the remedy, Marinette asks, quietly, “How did you do it?”

Tikki and Plagg have retreated to the corner of the room to give them some privacy, but she knows that they’re both watching Adrien carefully. She recognizes them for what they are, now; Adrien’s friends, yes, but his bodyguards as well.

“Oh,” says Adrien sheepishly, ruffling the back of his hair, “I’ve been exposing myself to different kinds of poison for a while, to build up a slight immunity.”

“You could have died.”

“But I didn’t,” Adrien says earnestly. “You got me the antidote. And the other day, in the forest—you patched me up.” His face is bright, all traces of earlier tension gone. “I think you might be my lucky charm, Marinette.”

Marinette blushes. “I—you’re the one who rescued me.”

“Nah,” he winks. “You would have figured out something on your own, eventually. I have no doubt of that.”

The praise warms her; she finds she can’t meet his eyes.

“Marinette…” Adrien starts, trailing off.

“Yes, Adrien?”

“I…” he sighs, scratching his elbow. “I know you have a life here, in Tanbarun. A home. But I was wondering if you’d like to come with me to Clarines. It doesn’t have to be for long—just a visit. To see what it’s like.”

“You want… _me_ …to visit your home?”

“I want what you want, Marinette,” says Adrien. “You don’t have to say yes; I won’t take any offense. But it’s an option.”

“Don’t be fooled, kid,” Plagg calls from across the room. “He just wants you as a security blanket. He’s thinking that if he brings home a guest maybe he won’t be in as much trouble for sneaking out of the castle.”

“Plagg!” Tikki scolds. “Can’t you tell they’re having a moment?”

And Marinette looks at Adrien and thinks _page after page after page,_ a boy who has already inked himself into a corner of her heart.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes.”


End file.
